


Silent Night

by dollylux



Series: Fic Advent Calendar 2014: Brothers, Soulmates, and Other Such Sexiness [9]
Category: Supernatural RPF
Genre: Christmas Caroling, Christmas Eve, Closeted Character, Depression, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Guns, M/M, Suicidal Thoughts, Suicide Attempt
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-12-09
Updated: 2014-12-09
Packaged: 2018-02-28 19:53:50
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,307
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2745011
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/dollylux/pseuds/dollylux
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Jared's plans for Christmas Eve get interrupted by a group of carolers.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Silent Night

**Author's Note:**

> Day nine of my fic advent calendar. Prompt: carolers.

“Jared, please. It’s Christmas Eve. You have to come. Isn’t there anything I can do to change your mind?”

Mom sounds so desperate, her voice thin, defeated, like she knows what the answer’s going to be, like she knows that nothing she could possibly say could change the next words out of Jared’s mouth.

“I’m sorry, Mom.” He means it to sound more final, to extract any and all emotion from the words, but they come out trembling and too honest. His eyes blur with tears and he lowers his head, rubbing hard at his forehead with his shaking hand. “I-I’ve gotta go.”

“Call me in the morning,” she rushes out, trying to catch him before he just hangs up. “Please. Just call me in the morning to say Merry Christmas and let me know you’re alright.”

He grits his teeth, hand turning into a claw as his nails dig into his forehead, breaking skin. He exhales loud through his nose and into the phone, his throat tight, trying to keep the words in. Trying to keep him from making any promises.

“I will,” he finally whispers.

“Promise me.”

Goddamnit. 

He pauses too long, he must, because he hears her voice break, crack around a sob. “Jared Tristan Padalecki, you promise me!”

“I promise!” There it is, the lie. He swallows down the painful sob that catches in his throat, refusing to let it up, to let her hear it. His self-hatred is on fire, consuming, his hand squeezing his phone so tight he’s afraid it’ll break. 

It won’t matter soon.

“I love you.” It’s simple, those words, and the ones he’s heard from this woman more than anyone else. He wants to tell her suddenly, to tell her his plans, to beg her to help him, stop him. But no one can help him now, not anymore. It ends tonight. Now all he has to do is say goodbye.

“I love you, too, Mama.”

He waits for two full seconds before he hangs up, staring down at the now blank screen on his phone, wondering if she’ll always remember the conversation they just had, if she’ll blame this on herself.

She’ll know that Jared was past all help. She’s always known. They all have. They’ll be sad for awhile maybe, but there will be relief under it all. An overwhelming feeling of _finally._ And then they can move on.

His house is dark, no light on except the one beside him on the nightstand. The gun is there, a Rossi .38 Special, a single bullet resting beside it. It’s been there on his bedside table for almost a week, waiting. He’d gone to work every day since he got it, smiled and joked with the guys at the construction site and come home to it, almost comforted to find it always waiting for him.

He stares at it for a long time, until his eyes go unfocused, until it just becomes a vague shape, just a harmless thing laying there within reach. 

He gets up and walks to the kitchen, shuffling down the empty hallway and grabbing a glass out of the kitchen cabinet, pouring himself a generous helping of Jim Beam.

The house is so quiet without Sadie, without the soft click of her nails and her happy pants when he gets home every evening, without her wet nose nudging affectionately at the side of his face when he sprawls on the couch at night, blank eyes on the television screen.

But Sandy’s got her now, Sandy and her new husband, and Sadie will be happy there, with them. Will have someone who wants to play with her again, who will give her attention and not just ignore her the way Jared ignores everything else.

The bourbon licks fire down his throat but he doesn’t stop, doesn’t quit drinking until the glass is empty. He sets it down with a sharp slam against the marble counter, the liquor already snaking down to his empty stomach, settling there like lava.

He returns to the bedroom.

He doesn’t sit on the bed because that feels like a commitment, like he’s ready. And he’s not yet. Fear settles in under his skin, sliding around there quietly, and his mind goes on the constant loop that it has been for a month: _this is it, if you do this. This is the last night you’ll ever have. That’s the last drink you’ll ever have. The last person you smiled at was Mrs. Burton next door when you helped her with her groceries. The last person you kissed was Ty, and that was three months ago, when you realized you were too much of a coward to ever take him home to your mama, when you realized you’d never be happy being anything but a queer but you’re too chickenshit to tell anybody you’re a queer. And now here you are, and this is your last night._

His chin trembles as an unavoidable whimper gets strangled out in his throat, his long arms wrapping around himself as he stands in the middle of his bedroom, six feet from the bed and from the gun, and he can’t take his eyes off of it. It feels like it’s calling to him now, like it won’t let him get out of it. Not again, not tonight. 

He makes his bed, tugging the sheets straight and smoothing them out, fluffing his pillows and stacking them just-so against the headboard, sitting down on it after he’s finished. He’s facing it now, and he reaches out for it without letting himself think about it too much.

The handle is cool to the touch, and he runs his fingers over the cold steel of the barrel. He hates guns, hates crazy gun nuts and has signed many petitions against the NRA online (quietly, never letting the guys from work know). But here he is, holding a single bullet in his hand after he’s opened the chamber. He runs the pad of his forefinger over the tip of the bullet, pressing a shaking kiss to it before taking a deep breath and loading the cartridge into the cylinder. He closes it back carefully, waiting to hear the click. His thumb pulls back the hammer, and his breath catches in his throat when it stays in place, cocked and ready.

He starts to cry then, cradling the gun in both of his hands, forefinger laced through the trigger guard and ghosting over the trigger. He hates the tears sliding hot down his cheeks, hates the proof of what a fucking coward he is. He starts to rock back and forth then, the bourbon settled in now and making his head swim.

He wishes someone would call him. Wishes someone would stop him. He just wants someone to please, please stop him. Please.

His mind tells his body to lift the gun, but it doesn’t happen. His hand trembles violently in his lap, almost like it’s pleading with him not to do this. He wraps his left hand around his wrist and forces it up.

He tucks the muzzle against his temple, the kiss of steel against his sweaty skin absolutely freezing, making him flinch. He closes his eyes.

_Please._

When he first hears it, he thinks maybe he’s imagining it. That it’s improbable, surely. He holds his breath, tears falling relentlessly, and he listens.

It comes even stronger now, clearer, rising up high and drifting through the quiet house, a small choir of voices singing outside his front door.

_Carolers._

He can’t make out the words but the pacing is familiar, the inflection of their gathered tone, and his sluggish mind starts to add in words:

_Silent night, holy night. All is calm. All is bright._

It’s beautiful, it’s sweet and pure. It feels like a requiem. Something to ease him down to sleep, to make it a little easier to pull the trigger. His finger trembles against it, just barely squeezes the curve of metal.

_Sleep in heavenly peace. Sleep in heavenly peace._

A single voices rises up then, stronger and brighter and more beautiful than all the others, an archangel among the cherubim, and starts the song over alone. 

Jared opens his eyes.

He listens to the whole verse again, hating that it’s muffled through the walls of his house, that it doesn’t sound as pure as it surely does out there in the cold, on his front step. The impulse to get up, to go outside, to listen, is almost overwhelming.

He’s lowered the gun without even realizing it, all of his attention on to that voice, male surely and golden in color, bright and hopeful as stars, gentle as it begs him to sleep peacefully.

He uncocks the gun and sets it on his nightstand before standing up, the liquor making him a little unsteady on his feet.

He stops at his front door and presses his ear to the wood of it, his eyes falling closed. He can hear him now, that boy, that voice, still singing but it’s with the others again. Jared can pick him out effortlessly, could never lose that voice now that he’s heard it. 

It feels ridiculous to be so drawn to a sound, to a person singing, interrupting him, but he’s trembling with it now, emotion taking over when the song draws to a close.

What if they leave? What if they think no one’s home and they go away, go to the next house? Leave him alone again? What if he dies without ever hearing that voice again?

He opens the door the tiniest bit, cracking it and peeking out through the opening. There are no more than ten of them but they’re all bundled up, hats and coats and scarves, sheets of paper clutched in their hands. They’re about to leave, about to leave Jared here by himself, and the fear of that makes him open the door all the way, his eyes wide and pleading when he steps out onto the porch, pulling the door closed behind him.

“Wait,” he says softly, his voice scraped raw. He clears his throat, and the sound makes some of them pause, turn to face him. He can’t look at them, can’t meet their eyes, not when he looks like this: his face scraggly with the beard he’s let grow in, his skin pale and splotched red from crying, eyes bleary and desperate as he looks down at his now empty hands. “Can you. Can you keep singing?”

There seems to be a silent conversation among them that only takes a few seconds before they’re regrouping, standing close together at the bottom of Jared’s steps, and he only has to wait for a few beats before they’re singing again.

“O Holy Night” this time, and there’s that voice again, strong and unfiltered and heartbreakingly sweet, and he feels it like a touch on his tired skin. He sinks down right there, tucking up against his house and pulling his long legs up to his chest, head resting back against the siding, eyes falling closed. He picks the voice out of the group, holds onto it and just listens.

_Fall on your knees, O hear the angel voices. O night divine, O night when Christ was born._

When the voice starts again on a solo, lifting up above all the others, Jared opens his eyes again, focusing on the group for the first time. He stands up and walks barefoot across his porch to get closer to them, shuffling down the steps and stopping right in front of them.

He’s there, right there, right in front. His eyes are so bright they seem to glimmer, a light color kept a mystery by the shadows around them. He’s got a knit hat pulled down over his head and around his ears, and his sweet, full mouth is red from the bitter wind, shiny with spit or lip balm, and he’s singing like he’s singing right to Jared, like he knows Jared needs this, his song. Like he knows he’s saving him.

Their eyes hold for what feels like hours, the song going on and on and on until Jared feels like he’s being held in the thrall of this voice, this boy.

The song finally ends, everything going quiet around them, but they’re still looking, still searching each other’s eyes, and Jared wonders what the boy sees, what he’s finding in Jared’s gaze on this night of all nights.

The carolers start to walk away then, probably unsettled by how strange Jared’s being, by the way he hasn’t looked away from the boy since he started singing alone, some of the mumbling out ‘Merry Christmas’ as they bundle together and continue on to the neighbor’s house.

Only the boy remains, his pink mouth closed now, the tip of his nose and his cheeks a matching, frozen red. Jared’s heart is pounding loud against his ribcage, in his ears, and he has to wrap his arms around himself to keep from reaching out and touching him.

“Can you sing again?” Jared finally manages, going for broke, nothing to lose now. He realizes then that there are still tears slipping silently from his eyes and down his face, dampening his beard. “Can you sing one more song?”

“Yeah,” the boy says almost without hesitation, one of his gloved hands coming up to clasp around Jared’s arm, squeezing his bicep gently. He’s searching Jared’s face like he knows something’s wrong, like it’s all spelled out there in front of him. “Why don’t we go inside? I’m freezing my ass off.”

Jared smiles then, amazed that the motion comes so easy to his face still, and he has to duck his head to recover. He nods down at his bare feet, reaching up to tuck his messy, long hair behind his ears before he turns to the house, leading the way up onto the porch and opening the door.

It’s pitch black inside, and Jared has to fumble around to turn on the lamp by the couch. He looks over at the boy just as he’s pulling the hat from his head, his hair dark blonde and sweaty, sticking up in wild tufts that he tries to smooth out with his now bare fingers. Jared feels his chest tighten, unable to tear his eyes off of him.

“Do you, um. Do you want some…” he trails off, about to offer hot chocolate that he doesn’t have, coffee that he doesn’t have. He glances over at his dark kitchen, spying the bottle of Jim Beam. “...Bourbon?”

The guy laughs, short and amused, unzipping himself from his thick peacoat. “Sounds awesome. Make it a double. I’ve been singing next to my tone-deaf neighbor all evening.”

Jared nods, grinning now because he can’t help it. He retrieves a clean glass and pours a generous amount of spirit into it before he’s carrying it over to the boy who is now settled down on his couch in a grey cableknit sweater and nice-fitting jeans, everything about him easy, comfortable, like they do this every single day.

“I’m Jared.” He hands over the glass and sits down beside him, ignoring how much his voice is shaking if the boy will. 

“Jensen.” Jensen lifts the glass in a toast and gulps the bourbon down in two swallows, only wincing a little before leaning over to set the glass on the coffee table. “Thanks. And thanks for the rescue. I was ready to call it a night anyway.”

Jared nods, not really knowing what to say now that he’s got him here, this angel of a boy who is kind of perfect, who is quick to smile and probably go toe-to-toe with Jared in being able to hold his liquor and who is simply the most beautiful thing Jared has ever seen. 

He glances back toward his bedroom, toward the gun that he can feel like it’s pulling at him, calling to him. He’s jerked back to the present when he feels a cold hand on his bare arm.

“Look, I work at a rehab facility,” Jensen starts, his voice gentle, “and I know what a guy looks like when he’s having a hard time. When he thinks he’s at the end of his rope. I know that reckless look, Jared. If you need to talk, I’m here to listen.”

Jared just stares at him, stunned, his cheeks flushing because he feels caught. Ashamed. He shakes his head, arms folding over his chest again, and he looks away from Jensen’s caring gaze, from those eyes that seem like they’d stay on him until the end of time, no matter what horrible thing Jared said, no matter what secrets he gave life.

“I just,” he whispers, nails digging into the insides of his arms. “I-I just can’t. Not. Not right now. Okay?”

“Okay.” Jensen’s smile is as soft as his voice, and his hand hasn’t left Jared’s arm, his fingers long and thick and graceful, unmoving. “So, hey, I’m yours. Any requests?”

“Anything,” Jared mumbles, straining toward that touch, his eyes falling closed again. That voice. He just needs Jensen’s voice. “Anything you want. Please.”

It’s quiet between them, settling into the little spaces between their bodies, the ones that shouldn’t be there, but it’s comfortable, this silence. It feels soft, comforting, not the kinds of silences that feel like they’re going to swallow Jared whole. He hears Jensen inhale, hears his lips part.

“Have yourself a Merry little Christmas,” he sings so softly, his voice low, intimate, like it’s right against Jared’s skin. “Let your heart be light. From now on, our troubles will be out of sight.”

Jared’s chin is trembling again, his eyebrows drawn together as exhausted tears slip from his closed eyes. He moves without even realizing it, sliding down on the couch until he’s curled up on his side against it, his head in Jensen’s lap, cheek resting against the soft, worn denim of his jeans. Jensen’s hand is in his hair after only a few seconds of a pause, fingers spreading out and sinking into the thick mess of it.

“Have yourself a Merry little Christmas. Make the yuletide gay. From now on, our troubles will be miles away. Here we are as in olden days, happy golden days of yore. Loving friends who are dear to us gather near to us once more.” Those fingers slide across his face, tickle over his whiskered cheeks like maybe Jensen doesn’t mind them, like he can see through the wreck Jared is right now and find something worth knowing.

He feels cradled, kept safe somehow. Feels not alone for the first time in too long. Feels like maybe he’s not a burden to everyone. Jensen’s fingers tame Jared’s hair down, tucking it behind his ears, nails dragging gentle over his scalp.

“Through the years, we all will be together, if the fates allow. Hang a shining star upon the highest bough. And have yourself a Merry little Christmas now.” Jensen’s voice drifts off into a whisper and then into quiet. Jared’s entire body is relaxed now, Jensen’s fingers still stroking through his hair, all of him warm and constant and grounding. Here. 

He’s forgotten about his plan, his goodbye, the loaded gun waiting for him still. Jensen’s free hand finds his own and laces their fingers together, holding on tight.

“Please don’t leave,” Jared says softly, breath held as he waits for a response. 

“Not going anywhere. I promise.”

Jensen gives his hand a squeeze, thumb stroking over his palm, right where the gun was clutched not twenty minutes ago. Jared feels almost light, calmed. Not alone. 

He reminds himself to call his mom in the morning before he exhales, lets it all go in a grateful sigh.

**Author's Note:**

> national suicide prevention lifeline: 1-800-273-TALK (24/7)


End file.
